


It's 11:59 pm and I love you

by nachtfalter



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: F/M, Love Confessions, Oneshot, Reconciliation, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:15:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24311893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nachtfalter/pseuds/nachtfalter
Summary: Donny fucked up. Donny's sorry. Donny won't rest until you forgive him.(The war is over - all the Basterds survived)
Relationships: Donny Donowitz/Original Female Character(s), Donny Donowitz/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	It's 11:59 pm and I love you

You’re in Berlin, you’re in Georgia, you’re in Paris. You’re visiting Holocaust survivors, you’re on a press tour, you’re touring army bases, you’re on vacation, you’re home. The phone rings. That goddamn phone always rings. Sometimes, the phone will just ring and ring and ring itself off the hook. Sometimes, a front desk attendant will appear at your hotel room door, scared, frazzled, unsure of what to do – “I’m sorry, Miss, but there’s a phone call and we couldn’t reach your room-” You shake your head and close the door in their face. But sometimes, you’re in a place where they have one of these new-fashioned answering machines that you don’t fully understand, and after 5 rings you jump because you hear his voice.

“It’s twenty-three fifty-nine. And I love you.”

You’ll never wonder how it is that he found you again. You suspect Stiglitz has something to do with it, always the best tracker, the most talented spy of your bunch.

“In a minute, it'll be a new day,” the machine will say, sometimes slur, breathing heavily. “And I'm still gonna love you. Please pick up, please just – fuck.” The sound of breath catching in a throat, the voice sometimes sounding guarded, sometimes close to openly crying. “I just, I need to hear your voice.”

Instead, you are hearing _his_ voice, and it feels like a punch to the stomach every time. You’ll slam your coffee mug down or throw your book on the bed or push your chair away from your desk. You’ll most likely start pacing whatever room you’re in. Long gone are the times where you’d just stare at the phone like he could see you, somehow, through time and space. But you still see him, in your mind. Smirking at you across the campfire. Crawling out of his tent in the morning, hair a messy dark halo around his head. Glancing at you from his spot by the window where he was meant to be keeping watch.

You see him in his uniform, marching by your side, or in the civilian disguise he wore when you snuck into town together. You see his dark eyes lighting up when he first saw you wearing that god-awful orange dress you used to get groceries – maybe the first time he realized you were actually a real woman underneath all that muck and grime. You see his laugh at whatever idiotic jokes you spewed out while playing cards (and losing).

You feel more than see his hand on yours, that first night when he came into your tent. God, when you heard the tent flap being opened, for a split second you tricked yourself into thinking a Nazi had wandered into your camp. You had your hand on your gun in a second – but then you felt his calloused, rough touch, and you heard his hushed voice. Seconds later, you felt his kiss. You hear his whispers in your ear when he's above you, words of adoration. "Fuck... I love you," you hear, and you taste the same bittersweet words on your lips. "Think I'll love you every day of my life."

Most painfully, you see him hunched over Von Hammersmark at that goddamn vet clinic in that godforsaken French village. Offering to Aldo to kill himself. Explaining to you that it was the best way to proceed with Operation Kino. And later in the back alley, after you stormed out in tears, asking you to survive and live without him. _I'll love you every day of my life._

You see him standing in that goddamn forest when you arrived to hand over Landa, looking like such a fucking smug piece of shit. Gloating as he tells you all the story of how Shoshanna beat him and Omar to the punch, how no Basterd had to explode – like you hadn’t told him that, over, and over, and over again. All of you together, no one dead, you see his face fall after you’ve slapped him. You see his eyes start to look wet when you tell him you never want to see him again, never want to hear from him again.

You do think about picking up the phone, every time.

By fate or by design, one night, you’re in New York. It’s dangerous, it’s closer than you’ve ever gotten, you’re aware of that. It’s still a three-hour drive from Boston, you tell yourself, if that’s even where he lives these days. You’re gambling, you suddenly think, gambling on Stiglitz’ appreciation of your friendship, on lack of information spread, on bad traffic, on the bad weather, on lack of determination, on sheer luck. But when you tear the door open at eleven fifty-one and he’s standing there, looming over you, drenched, disheveled, out of breath, red-eyed and staring at you like he’s looking upon the face of God – you realize maybe you really weren’t gambling _on_ those things at all.

“What time is it?” He asks, in lieu of hello. “Eleven fifty-two,” you answer, without having to tear your eyes from his face in order to check the clock you suddenly realize you’d been watching all evening. “Fuck,” he breathes. “I would have… I didn’t even get to knock. Why’d you…”

One word, one shake of your head, would be enough to send him away forever. But instead you take a step into his space, press yourself into his chest. “Because I love you too, Donny. You fucking bastard.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, I just punched this one out, it's my first writing in a long time (please be gentle) and I guess it's sort of a "fill in the blanks yourself" type of fanfic. Let me what you think!


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